


how does it feel to feel like you

by notadoombot (CaptainClintSpiderBalder)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), general ptsd symptoms, it's about the repression.png, pre-slash techcnically, sometimes a family is an alcoholic with ptsd and a depressed soldier, the usual, tw for anxiety, veiled reed richards cameo?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25143877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainClintSpiderBalder/pseuds/notadoombot
Summary: This is where some realities might vary.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Kudos: 9
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Fanwork Like it's 2012 Fest





	how does it feel to feel like you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Fanwork like it's 2012](https://cap-ironman.dreamwidth.org/2077232.html) for cap_ironman. 
> 
> I tried to make this happier and. It. Didn't happen. But hopefully it's not sad either. Anyway, hope you like it anon, and sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language and I definitely wrote this at an ungodly hour during the work week.

There’s this guy in Manhattan who will explain to anybody who will listen his theory of multiple realities, destined to collide with each other at some point in the near future. When that happens, as Tony has discussed several times in several stages of sobriety, it will become a matter of which one of them (the multiple them, capital Them) will react faster. Because Tony knows himself, or at least the ugliest parts of himself, he is willing to concede the point that this will end in bloodshed, it just being a matter of who will have more things holding them back. This discussion runs in the back of his mind for weeks, as he goes back and forth with Manhattan guy on the equations, just to make him suffer.

This is the reality as of now: the same way it happened with his last four prototypes and the new security perimeter of Stark Tower, Tony will press his fingers against the cool solidity of the workshop table. His hand will reach out, not for the first time, for the espresso shot invariably placed on his right. He drank it sometime during the past hour and although empty, the cup will still carry the faint impression of heat. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t bring it up to his face, the scent of caffeine will still hit his stomach with raw force. Once again, he will circle his fingers around the cup to keep them from shaking.

This is where some realities might vary.

Tony makes a note of it all: the thin layer of sweat extending down his arms, the oversensitive skin that is always too hot, doo dry, too cold, too much of something. It will take him a few minutes— the range might change, to convince his brain to sit on the stool while Jarvis runs the diagnostics on the armor once again. Stopping the pacing sends conscious, deliberate messages to his brain. There is nothing wrong, they say. Even though he is certain he is looking down at those last few seconds that precede a reality on the verge of collapse. He will tap his fingers against the table one more time. There is nothing wrong. His heart rate will spike, then it will slow down. Somewhere along the line, his voice will crack during a command. He will realize with more annoyance than dread that this is the breaking point for this specific incursion into the workshop. It is now time to return to his room and fail to sleep. He will think of realities that collide with each other. He will wonder if Other Tony is having a drink too, just one small sip to help along with the quiet. He is not, for one, a big fan of getting help, this one feels more like meeting an old friend than admitting defeat. And so, he will sleep again for a few hours, before the cycle begins again.

He got so used to waking up gasping for air and clutching at his chest, terrified that when he looked down he would only find a messy jumble of skin and flesh molded together, silent and somehow still pulsing. These days it takes him longer to notice the symptoms creeping up on him. He is distracted, for sure. Insomnia is not a new notion, and neither is drinking for that matter. He has never been one for standing still, which is maybe what makes the beginning of this new set of rules harder to pinpoint.

The third time he misses the mark on the helmet he is working on, filling the room with blue sparks, he drops the pointer on the table and presses both hands against his face. There is something unreal to the texture of his skin, which only makes him dig in his nails harder into his palms. Eyes closed, breath steady. He forces himself to wait until his fingers become numb and then he gets up and leaves for the kitchen.

It’s not, as it almost always is— Or better yet, as he has come to _expect_ it to be, empty.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

He draws out a shaky voice and hopes that Steve doesn’t notice. The truth is that he gave the whole team access to the building, but he never expected them to follow through. It had been a nice thought at the time. Brought out, maybe, by his messy break-up and crushing vastness of the Tower at the time. He had not been able to go back to Malibu, and his house in New York—- Well, it had not been the nicest place, growing up in. Fresh start and all that.

He drags a chair to the counter and sits beside Steve, who he has not seen in maybe two or three days. That is a new thing to make a note of. He used to be better at tracking time, or maybe Pepper was better at that and he simply followed her lead. Either way, there he is: three in the morning, towering over an empty plate that still has some pop-tart crumbs in it. The jeans are new, the sneakers are not, they look grey and worn out. He all but screams well-adjusted national figure, which always comes as a relief because he is the only one of them who actually seems to have stuck around, and he would have hated to have someone to look up to.

Steve runs his fingers absentmindedly across the nape of his neck. “Just got in,” both his cheeks and throat are tanned, darker than they should be against the contrast of the dirty blonde hair. He is sporting the exhausted look of someone who has spent the last few days drinking horrible coffee in diners and riding around his motorcycle with no helmet on. Steve is not pale, but he is pale enough that a few freckles show on his collarbone as he moves and the fabric of his shirt wrinkles. You could dig it, if you liked that sort of thing.

“Fun trip?”

He rolls his eyes at Tony, almost fondly: “Not quite.” There is something soft about the way their conversations have developed ever since Tony came back, which is not to say much.

None of them had really rested the night of the invasion, Tony could have set them up in a nice hotel but instead they put Loki in SHIELD’s custody and found a room within the building that would still have four walls and a ceiling. It had been one of the lower floors lounges. Natasha and Barton collapsed together on the only couch, shoulder to shoulder. Against all odds it was Natasha the one who kept them up the rest of the night with stories from the earlier years of her service. Barton had interrupted once or twice, the rest had been low chuckles and the odd smile. Bruce had drifted off to sleep sometime after a couple of hours and Thor’s expression had relaxed somewhat. Steve sat beside Tony, which had seem like a peace offering at the time. When everything had quieted down and the sun was coming up, Tony had very pointedly not looked at him and asked _so, what are your plans, old man?_

And here is the thing about this reality on which Tony has been pondering for the past two months: everything that came after the wormhole seemed tampered with, blurry around the edges.

In this reality, Tony says _what are your plans, old man_ and Steve spends a couple of minutes thinking about it, so much that Tony finally looks at him to meet the same confused gaze. His fingers are already trembling from lack of sleep. Steve’s expression falls flat, he shakes his head. This is where Tony says _you know, if you ever need a place to crash_ and winces as he speaks, suddenly feeling the weight of his fall. He pushes out a smile that he needs to rip out of his chest, and which Steve, much to his surprise, returns: tired and washed out. _Thank you, Tony_ , which is not an answer at all, but still hits him in all its raw softness.

He had not taken him up on the offer until a week later. By then Tony was still a mess but was able to hide it better. Steve did not have anything to bring to the Tower apart from himself and the bag of clothes that SHIELD provided for him. Rhodey had come over that night and told him what a good samaritan Tony was, and he was tight lipped but cordial, shook Steve’s hand and did not mention any of the nasty things Tony had texted him about when he met Captain Rogers aboard the Helicarrier.

They have been trying to find their footing ever since.

“Where did you get to this time,” Tony digs his palm heels into his eyes, there is a spark behind his eyelids that makes him feel wobbly. Dehydration. He tries to think about the last time he ate. “Did you eat all the pop-tarts?”

Steve leans back in his chair and pushes the empty plate away from him. “You look terrible,” he gets up and reaches into one of his cupboards. Everything seems small in comparison. The cardbox, the cupboard, the whole kitchen. He does not need to lean on his toes but he does it anyway as if out of habit.

As Steve takes the pop-tart out of the pouch and into the microwave, Tony shakes his head. “Thank you for that.” He is hungry enough that he might be talking about the comment or the food. The buzz of the microwave is not exactly soothing, but it makes him rest his forehead against the table anyway.

He doesn’t have to look at him to know that Steve is smiling when he says “Storm King”, which only makes Tony keep slumping over the counter.

“You know,” he says, “we’ve got art centers in the city too.”

“I am aware,” Steve takes out the plate before the beep of the microwave goes off. “I grew up here too.”

“No, you grew up a while ago.”

“Well, I can google”, he pushes the plate near Tony’s face. “And I like to drive.”

He has been doing that a lot. Most of the time he will disappear for two or three days at a time. A week, in one memorable occasion. If not for the fact that Tony is a very wealthy and very paranoid entrepreneur with his own tracking devices, he might have thought Steve had crashed his bike somewhere in the mountains.

“So what else?”, Tony bites into the pop-tart and burns his tongue. He should probably get up to get some water, but he doesn’t. “You did not spend three days in Mountainville, what have you discovered this time?”

The first time Steve came back from one of his trips, Tony made him map out the entire journey. Steve spoke in short, dry sentences. Because Tony does not tire easily, he finally took out his notebook and a pen and drew what appeared to be a cliff surrounded by foliage. _You know,_ Tony said, _I could have just looked up the place_. Steve hummed along while he talked, mumbled: _well, you asked_ , and Tony did not comment on the way his eyes traveled the drawn lines or the fact that he just seemed to really enjoy spending time in high places.

Talking becomes easier after that. It’s easier when Tony can put his attention somewhere else, anywhere else. He does not presume to know what Steve is going through, but he knows he is restless in the same ways that Tony is.

“You know, I—” Steve begins, and immediately shakes his head, drags both his shoulders with the movement.

“What”, this time Tony gets up from his chair. Both his legs feel light, did they feel light the whole time? The fleeting thought of having a whiskey crosses his mind, but he is not sure what Steve will think of that.

“Nothing,” he grabs the last bit of pop-tart from Tony’s hand. “I did miss your coffee.”

“You better, that shit’s expensive.”

Sometimes Tony will speak and Steve will listen intently. He is less talkative than what Howard described. This version of Steve will show glimpses of interest as the weeks go by. He will dive into any tech that Tony throws his way and then vanish for a few days. When Tony speaks, his face will contort in something akin to concentration. Two months ago every answer he had for Tony was deliberate and thought out, a conscious attempt of not snapping back at him. Because it gets to the point where everything about Tony is prickly, his skin and voice and words, he only got through the third polite _thank you_ on a row before barking _what the fuck, Rogers_. To which Steve replied through his teeth with _I’m fucking trying_ , the first swear word that he had heard from him, which Tony counted as a victory. And he passed him a beer and said _well, don’t_. Tony still doesn’t know if Steve got the meaning behind it, that Tony does not need to be coddled, that he needs to be snapped out of it every now and again. He still listens, though. Another thing that merits adjustment.

With one sudden movement Steve reaches out and grabs Tony’s wrist. No, that’s probably not fair. Steve’s movement is not sudden, but the room feels unsteady, and he feels light-headed when Steve turns his wrist around in his hand and presses a thumb to a patch of smooth, pink skin. “Is this a burn?”

Ah, yes.

“I get sloppy when I—-” the sentence falters before the end. There’s not much to tell, really, other than sometimes his hand will slip, and lately he spends more time missing the mark than hitting it. Pepper always told him to be careful, which he _is_. He is just. He doesn’t like unfinished projects. He clears his throat. “To be honest, you should have seen my first few prototypes, this is _nothing_ in comparison.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He takes too long to let go of Tony’s wrist and, he does, the hold remains an impression on his skin for a few seconds. Tony stares at it before making his hand into a fist. He hits Steve’s shoulder weakly. “Well,” and he thinks he still should get that whiskey and maybe five hours of sleep before restlessness hits again, “it’s good to have you home.”

There’s a tight line on Steve’s jaw, Tony’s eyes drink it up and memorize it. He thinks back on colliding realities and the ugliness that comes with being Tony Stark. Everything since he came back from the wormhole has been a series of reminders. That what surrounds him is solid. That his body feels and needs too much and not enough at the same time. That his mind will trick him. That there might be another them; more tethered, more complete.

“It is,” Steve smiles at him. “Good. To be home, I mean.”

In this reality, Tony feels himself stretched too thin, waiting for the inevitable to come.


End file.
